Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise, in such a night.

Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you

And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.

There's a time for all things.

Nothing can seem foul to those who win.